Shards
by Luxorien
Summary: Collection of drabbles, mostly unrelated to each other and ranging in length from 100 to 1000 words. Most originally posted on the LJ community camelot drabble. New: As Well Deny the Wind-polished Stars
1. Sender of Storms

**Title:** Sender of Storms  
**Rating**: G  
**Pairing/s:** None  
**Summary**: Sometimes problems just step aside when Merlin's around.  
**Warnings**: None  
**Word Count**: 630  
**Prompt:** #4 (Surrender)

The blasting gale drove their eyes downward, so that the knights did not see the wind-sculpted drift until they were about to plow through it. Arthur halted abruptly when he realized that the whiteness in front of him was solid. He didn't have time to wonder how they would continue up the steep mountain path, because the snow erupted, sending down a cascade of icy powder as a great shape rose up to block their way.

It was a dragon. That simple, inexplicable thought drove his sword from its scabbard, even as his jaw dropped before the sinuous, jeweled beauty of it. He had never seen a creature so large move so quickly, scales flashing a brilliant silver-blue through the storm. It opened its serrated mouth, and he prayed for a fortunate strike before those shining teeth spilled his guts out onto the snow.

"_Stop_!"

Arthur wondered if he looked as comically surprised as the dragon did when Merlin threw himself between them, as though his outstretched arms could keep the monster at bay. His brow furrowed when he realized that his manservant was just as interested in keeping Arthur from harming the dragon as he was in keeping the dragon from harming Arthur. He had the same look Sir Orfeo wore every solstice, when his twin boys crawled into their cups and came out brawling.

The beast, for its part, regarded Merlin with a curiously human expression of baffled indignation. It was a strange sight: the great maw and the razor teeth looked odd without the bestial snarl. Then it did something even stranger.

It spoke.

"Do not presume to command me. I am a daughter of sky and storm. I bend no wing to the lords of flame."

"I'm not commanding, I'm _asking_. Can't we talk about this first?"

"Talk!" Arthur hadn't meant the word to come out with such a, well, squeak. He desperately lowered his pitch. "With a great bloody dragon?!"

"Arthur," Merlin murmured from the corner of his mouth. "Shut up."

The reptilian eyes narrowed, the head shifting slightly to train on Arthur. "Your realm ends here, ever-king."

"We are not the first to reach your border." Merlin's voice carried over the wind with a firm confidence, as though he conversed with enormous magical creatures every day. "There was an old man ahead of us. He fled Camelot with a dangerous artifact. The Heart of Gyssa."

"No craft of men can touch the _Lailaphet_," the dragon replied with a snarling sneer.

At first, Arthur didn't think Merlin would respond. He stood in the roiling snow for several breaths, and when he spoke, there was a shadow on his words, as though the wind spoke with him. "_Drakontites _it is called in your tongue."

At this, the creature snapped its neck down to peer at Merlin with a frightening, predatory gaze. They held this pose, and Arthur tightened his grip on his weapon, certain that it would be needed.

With a bone-jarring grinding of claw on stone, the silvery creature retreated down the mountainside, clinging to the nearly sheer cliff with spider-like dexterity. The long neck arched down respectfully, surrendering the path to the small group of bedraggled men and horses.

Merlin turned back and snatched his mount's reins, briskly urging the skittish beast past the dragon. "Are you coming?" he asked over his shoulder.

Arthur was still holding his sword. He looked at it. The dragon crouched below them, silent and submissive. Merlin had fallen face-first into the snow a few yards ahead, his horse snorting and sidestepping. The gaze of the knights was a heat at Arthur's back. He raised his blade and pointed it like an accusing finger.

"Merlin!"


	2. Empire of Midnight

**Title:** Empire of Midnight  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** None  
**Summary:** The throne must not be empty.  
**Warnings:** Possibly influenced by the Lich King cinematic.  
**Word Count:** 217  
**Prompt:** #5 (Crown)

There was nothing except the sweeping thunder of his sword, the ache in his arms and the warm rain of blood. He saw only his enemies, and didn't think to watch his friends. When the crush of battle finally allowed him a breath, it was stolen by the sight of Merlin approaching the throne Arthur had been struggling so hard to reach. It was as though the line of soldiers had opened up to let him pass unbloodied through their ranks.

Men were still dying all around him, but all Arthur could hear was a stillness, the absolute quiet of the universe holding its breath. The king wanted to scream at his servant to stop, but the silence was too heavy. He could only watch.

Merlin didn't flinch as he settled onto the obsidian throne. When the curving crown of shadows slithered over his brow, his features showed only calm determination. His composure seemed justified when he didn't die the horrifying death that supposedly awaited any mortal foolish enough to take the Seat of Midnight. It was a power meant for gods, a raging river that would destroy any man who tried to tame it. Yet Merlin did not perish.

When he saw the rising tide of magic in his friend's eyes, Arthur almost wished he had.


	3. Moonlit

**Title:** Moonlit  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing:** None  
**Summary:** An apology that is no apology.  
**Warnings:** None  
**Word Count:** 246  
**Prompt:** #6 Whispers in the Night

It was the quiet that woke him: the night suffused with absolute stillness. He opened his eyes but made no other movement, listening for the predator that had startled the world into silence. He heard nothing, but a dark shape passed in front of the eastern stars, veiling the sky as it made its way among the sprawling bodies of knights who were supposed to be keeping watch. In one swift, silent motion, Arthur rolled to his feet, one hand grasping his blade.

He almost called out before he realized that his men were either enchanted or dead, and would not rouse from their slumber. So he followed the mysterious figure instead, threading carefully through outstretched limbs and picket lines, until whoever he was following slipped away under the trees.

Thin fingers of moonlight played with the shadows, shifting the eye from darkness to light and back again. Arthur wasn't sure when it happened: one moment he could see the dark shape ahead, and in the next breath there was nothing beneath the silent boughs. For the span of one heartbeat, he was completely and utterly alone. When the whisper came, it was born of the darkness and returned to it, silent and ineffable. But it was a voice he knew as well as his own, and he nearly dropped his sword when he recognized it.

"Camelot is not defended by swords alone. Whatever I have done, I have done for you, Arthur. Please remember that."


	4. In Pulverem Reverteris

**Title:** In Pulverem Reverteris  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing:** N/A  
**Characters:** Merlin, Arthur  
**Summary:** Remember, O man, that dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return.  
**Warnings:** Dark!Merlin  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Prompt:** Burn

His king gave no order, but none was required. Years of secrets and silence had made words unnecessary. When Camelot was threatened, Merlin acted. And when the acrid burning of flesh stung his eyes, he reminded himself what was at stake. He thought of the caves where he had first killed for Arthur in secret, and he told again the lie he had woven that day: that one man's innocence was a small price to pay for a kingdom. He whispered his flames into the wind, and they poured down over the southern armies like a deadly tide.

For Arthur.


	5. Tidings of the Wind

**Title:** Tidings of the Wind  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** None  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** Sometimes we hear what we want to hear.  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Prompt:** #9 Tears

On the battlements, he allows himself to remember. His days are spent maneuvering the great wheels of the court, but when the fierce northern air slams across the castle, he thinks of past sorrows rather than present problems. He has tucked his memories of Merlin far away, to be taken out and examined only here, where a clean, cold wind will burnish them. Arthur is waiting for the tears to fall, for the story to be ended. Yet the murmuring gale is inexhaustible, drying his eyes and taunting him with his deepest unspoken hopes, that Merlin's tale is without end.


	6. Desperate Times

**Title:** Desperate Times  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** None  
**Character/s:** Lancelot, Merlin  
**Summary:** Desperate measures.  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Prompt:** Tangled

The last of their light is being gnawed away by the hungry darkness when Lancelot takes Merlin aside. For the first time since they entered this atrium of hell, he allows uncertainty to color his words. In the beginning, he had faith that the young magic user would whisk them away to safety. Now he looks into blue eyes clouded with magic and pain and a soul-deep weariness - and he is afraid. And the fear strangles his words.

Merlin's power bleeds out into the black, tangling with it until it's impossible to tell where he ends and it begins.


	7. Passage I

**Title:** Passage  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** None.  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin.  
**Summary:** As usual, saving Camelot comes with a price.  
**Warnings:** This one kind of got away from me.  
**Word Count:** 894  
**Prompt:** #17 Tradition

Arthur couldn't help but smile, despite the circumstances. It was a small, secret thing, stolen while his manservant's gaze was shifted away. He was still standing after three days of Merlin's best pestering, and admitted to feeling a bit smug about it.

"All we have are stories. No sense getting scrambled over a minstrel's tale."

"Minstrels sing of dragons, sire. They're real enough."

"But they don't pull the sun across the sky or steal babes from their cots."

"No, they just tear cities into ruins. Definitely harmless, then." Merlin's tone was light, but Arthur didn't miss the way his gaze faded into the distance, remembering. Suddenly, this sport seemed a bit less...sporting.

"We'll be as cautious as haste allows - oh, we're here."

It was a bit anticlimactic. Arthur had been on his share of quests and he'd been expecting something a bit...more.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" It wasn't really a question; they could both see the simple carving on the weather-beaten stone. Merlin simply enjoyed mocking Arthur's sense of direction.

"It bears the mark. This must be the door." He dismounted and knelt to examine the rock-strewn depression. The stones had been rounded by the wind, and the sparse soil was studded with tor-grass and clover.

"Looks more like a...hole."

Arthur began scratching at the moss obscuring the design. Behind him, Merlin slid to the ground and grabbed the horses' reins, no doubt readying another sarcastic remark. He'd been against this venture from the start, despite Gaius's insistence that the tomb held their only hope of combating the blight. Arthur had teased him relentlessly for his supposed cowardice, but there was no heat behind the words. It wasn't fear that weighted Merlin's steps; he had proven his courage more times than Arthur could count. The truth behind his reluctance would emerge eventually. In the meantime, Arthur had a kingdom to protect.

A close examination of the stone revealed nothing, and Arthur turned to see if Merlin had any brilliant ideas. But Merlin wasn't paying him any heed, his head cocked to the side as though listening to something. Before Arthur could question him, the darkness came, slipping between one breath and the next. It lasted forever and no time at all: an endless, moonless night carried on a whisper.

The rolling hills around them didn't disappear; they simply _weren't_. A dim stone cavern replaced the open sky and the wind died, shrouding them in a silence so deep it seemed to weight the stale air. When Arthur drew his sword, the sound of the steel sliding against the scabbard didn't generate a single echo.

"Merlin?" The muffled sound of his own voice sent a sharp shiver down his spine. He tried to eye his friend while keeping his blade between them and the dark. "Are you all right?"

Merlin groaned, hands to his head as though trying to block something out. "I told you...this was...a bad idea."

"Don't be such a girl. Look, here's the door. We'll be home by breakfast."

The darkness sprawled in every direction except one: forward. Two enormous doors of polished granite rose up before them, extending beyond the sight afforded by the sourceless light that illuminated the immediate area. Arthur swallowed his uneasiness and grabbed one of the gargantuan pulls, intending to test his strength against the weight of the door.

As soon as his skin touched the surface, it seemed as though the ceiling caved in. Massive stones dropped to either side, forcing Arthur back a few steps. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes, and when he dropped it, he saw that the stones were actually statues - or creatures? They were made of stone, but they moved with the fluidity of life, stretching bat-like wings to block the door.

"Without blood, you may not pass." The voice ground out in a rumble that rattled Arthur's ribcage. He stifled an urge to backpedal. The creatures resembled humans, but their muscled arms and legs ended in vicious claws, and their eyes glowed with the light of sorcery.

"What does that mean? Whose blood?" Merlin asked, stepping up beside his king. He was squinting, as though fighting a headache, but his voice was steady and his back straight.

"Lifeblood. This is the price that must be paid. Two will approach; one will enter."

Arthur looked at Merlin, and saw his own confusion and defiance mirrored. But before he could challenge the monstrous guardians, Merlin tilted his head speculatively and asked them their names.

"What?" Arthur hissed. "This isn't a country harvest dance! You can't reason with-"

"Anwur," the creature ground out. "My brother is called Orsi."

Arthur was pretty sure his mouth was open. He was also pretty sure he couldn't help it. Though there was little expression on the creatures' stone faces, the growling voice sounded almost as surprised as Arthur felt.

"I am...Merlin. This is Arthur Pendragon, king of Camelot."

The king in question eyed Merlin askance and made a note to ridicule him for apparently forgetting his own name. Nevertheless, he had to admit that this parley was going better than expected.

"The once and future king is known to us."

"He seeks to save his people. Why do you demand their blood?"

The answer, when it came, was surprising in its unabashed simplicity.

"It is tradition."


	8. Passage II

**Title: **Passage II**  
Rating: **PG**  
Pairing/s: **None.**  
Character/s: **Arthur, Merlin.**  
Summary: **As usual, saving Camelot comes with a price**.  
Warnings: **I'm not sure why, but this played out in my head as though Colin Morgan got drunk with Matt Smith the night before. Also, it may be apparent which 90s cartoon I've been watching lately.**  
Word Count: **999 - no words left this time!**  
Prompt: **#18 Gold

"Tradition, is it?" Arthur frowned and felt the slow burn begin, spreading through his limbs like molten steel. "Forcing people to murder each other?"

"This is _our _home, human." Anwur's thunderous voice took on a threatening anger. "If you wish no blood spilled, then do not seek to enter it."

"You don't defend your home; you condone slaughter!"

"You live here?" Merlin's cordial interjection caused three pairs of eyes to slide his way. "Seems a bit...fusty."

The fiery eyes blinked once. "Our realm is greater than what can be seen here."

"So why this chamber? What's so special about it?"

"It is tradition."

"Yes, you said. But why? What are you guarding?"

Silence. Arthur looked from the impassive stone faces to Merlin's open one. Curiosity got the better of him, and he allowed the belligerent set of his shoulders to fade. If his mouthy servant managed to talk his way past these behemoths...well. That would be something to tell the children. Perhaps he could have Geoffrey set it to verse.

"We have executed this duty for many generations," the one called Anwur ground out. "The price must be paid."

"Why?"

"It is as it has always been."

"There are scrolls in that room that could save Camelot. Can you not permit our entrance in order to save the lives of thousands of people?"

"We do not set the price."

"Of course. You don't bleed. You couldn't enter if you wanted to." A pause as he thought this over, and then that head tilt Arthur had come to know and loathe. "You don't know what's in there, do you?"

Stone tails whipped back and forth in a silent frenzy. It was the only sign of agitation the creatures showed. Arthur sympathized. Merlin's nattering could erode one's patience like water carving stone. He was surprised to find that it was rather entertaining when one wasn't on the receiving end. But his mirth quickly faded in the face of their failure to gain entrance. If the guardians could not be forced, they were left with...no. It was unthinkable.

Merlin stepped towards the door, and this time the living statues drew back their wings, allowing him to approach the door he could not open. Arthur watched, nonplussed, as Merlin put his hand and then his head to the polished surface. His face was intent, as though he were listening. Holding that pose for several moments, he finally pulled away, and it seemed as though something clung to his skin for a moment as he stepped back. Arthur couldn't say what it was. A shadow, maybe. A trick of the light. Except it was _something_, because the portal changed. Light swirled across the surface like smoke, arising from nowhere and fading away out of sight. Letters appeared across the broad expanse of stone: curving lines of molten gold that bathed the cavern in a fierce radiance.

"What sorcery is this?" The words echoed Arthur's thoughts exactly, but they came from the second creature, which had remained silent throughout this odd parley. The luminous eyes were set on Merlin, who was examining the inscription with interest.

"The only sorcery I see here is yours." Arthur's sword arm rose as promptly as ever, despite the impossibility of harming such fell creatures with an ordinary blade. Simple courage had always stood him in good stead against magical threats in the past.

"This is not of our making." Anwur's voice betrayed the same bafflement as Orsi's. "The rituals do not speak of this."

"They're telling the truth, Arthur." Merlin didn't look away from the script, his eyes scanning slowly even as he spoke. "They're just one part of the protections Iamus put in place here."

A cold thought settled in Arthur's mind. "I thought Gaius said this Iamus was a man of...mundane learning."

"Perhaps he used magic also. Before the ban, many wise men studied sorcery alongside the material arts."

Arthur didn't ask the obvious questions: whether the blight was magical in nature; whether magic would be required to restore his kingdom's food supply. He refused to contemplate it. He had gone against his own law once, when he thought his need was great enough to justify his hypocrisy. Never again. Instead, he forced a lightness he did not feel. "So you can read that, then? It doesn't look like any writing I've ever seen."

"It's very old. Older than anything men have built or thought or said." Merlin's voice had taken on that utterly calm quality that sent not entirely unpleasant chills down Arthur's spine. It was a side of Merlin that he had seen only a handful of times, and which he had blissfully and repeatedly forgotten. This was the unaccountably wise Merlin, the Merlin who seemed to know things obscured from the sight of other men. Arthur wasn't sure what disturbed him more: the impossibly audacious claims Merlin made at times like this, or the fact that Arthur inevitably found himself believing them. When that fey light shone in Merlin's eyes, it invariably meant that something terrible and wonderful was about to happen.

"Maybe it was a mistake to come here. I'm sure Gaius will-"

"No. This is how it had to be. How it will always be. Look, 'blade of a king, blood of a servant.' Your blade, Arthur. My blood."

The words were ice, cracking through the air and freezing Arthur's heart in his chest. Protests crowded his throat, but he couldn't make his mouth form the words. It was _Merlin_ for God's sake.

The stone guardians reacted to the words in a different way, squaring their backs against the door and extending their clawed hands to the floor in front of them. A series of great grinding impacts pounded through the chamber as the rock beneath their claws rose up, growing like a living thing. It followed the creatures' rising hands like a hound on a scent, and shaped itself into a thick chopping block.

"The price must be paid," Anwur rumbled.


	9. Passage III

**Title: **Passage III  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/s: **None  
**Summary: **Arthur metes out justice.  
**Warnings: **Things aren't always what they seem.  
**Word Count: **423**  
****Prompt: **None. This one has gone off the drabble rails, so to speak.

Arthur regarded Merlin incredulously. He expected - _needed_ - to see his rejection of this ridiculous transaction mirrored in the other man's face, but instead he saw only a horrible resignation. Merlin almost smiled, but in his eyes was a terrible sadness.

"I do not bow to the whims of sorcery," Arthur insisted.

"Not even to save Camelot?"

"We'll find another way."

"And if I deserve it?"

"Don't be stupid." He tried for arrogant disdain, but the words came out as more of a plea. He wanted _his_ Merlin back: loyal, clumsy, utterly innocuous. Who was this grim stranger?

Blue eyes locked with Arthur's, Merlin brought a cupped hand to his mouth. Arthur wanted to look away - wanted to _run_ away - but he just stood dumbly by as his servant's exhalation caught fire, swirling like dragon's breath in his palm. An answering blaze shone from his eyes as he drew his hand away. The flame whirled and danced, forming into the shape of a galloping horse, its fiery mane streaming behind it in exquisite detail.

"Stop it," he whispered, but he could not even hear the words over the roaring in his ears as everything came crashing down around him.

"I have violated your law. We both know the penalty."

"No..."

"I've used magic within the borders of your kingdom. Repeatedly. I've cured the sick, turned aside swords. I've battled Morgause and Morgana in secret. I loosed the dragon on Camelot. I killed your uncle. And..." The fatalistic pride had faded, Merlin's tone growing more somber until he paused for what seemed an eternity. The flames of his magic died as though snuffed out by Death itself.

"And your father."

Arthur didn't remember what happened after that. Somehow the world was just white, and then Merlin was beneath him, the pulse in his throat beating against Arthur's hand as he pinned him to the granite block. The king's other arm was raised, his blade ready to slice through the skinny neck and bite into the stone below.

It was a recapitulation of the last time he had raised his sword in anger, only this time there was no one to talk him out of it. Merlin didn't offer any words in his own defense, no explanation of why he would defend Uther from Arthur's blade only to have him assassinated later. But who could fathom the plots of sorcerers? How many times had Arthur been fooled by their apparent acts of loyalty? Why did nothing ever make _sense_?

The sword fell.


	10. Passage IV

When the king arrived in Camelot, he spoke to no one until he entered Gaius's chambers. Yet he saw that news of his approach had preceded him, for the court physician's face was a still mask. Arthur could imagine what the old man was thinking: that perhaps the guards were mistaken, or perhaps Merlin had been sent on some errand and elected to go on foot. Just because the king returned alone with a riderless horse didn't mean..._couldn't _mean...

Arthur's sympathy was tempered by a vague suspicion. Had Gaius known? Was he a willing accomplice in Merlin's crimes? Or had he been fooled like the rest of them? Arthur decided that he didn't want to know. He'd already lost one friend, and Gaius's grief would be punishment enough for whatever part he may have played. He handed over the scroll he'd retrieved from the tomb, and watched the carefully schooled expression slip as the silence between them lengthened.

"Sire...?"

"I'm sorry, Gaius. I'm truly..." Arthur swallowed.

"He can't be gone." The words were a stricken whisper, all the more heartbreaking for their discordance. Arthur had thought nothing could shake the indefatigable physician. He faced death with calm professionalism every day, kept calm when the entire kingdom was at risk. To see his spirit crushed was as disheartening as watching the city itself fall.

Arthur opened his mouth to disclose Merlin's treachery, but the desolation in Gaius's slumped figure changed his mind. "We would not have the scroll were it not for him. He saved the kingdom." Those last words echoed strangely in Arthur's mind, and he had to swallow hard as he realized the truth of them.

"Of course, I'll...I will get started right away."

The king nodded and turned, unable to watch Gaius's dazed, wooden movements. The man would grieve quietly, and continue serving his king, but Arthur knew he would never be the same. A piece of him had left with his boy, and would not return until Merlin did.


	11. Passage V

Weeks stretched into months, and Camelot survived. Arthur did not ask what went into the concoction that Gaius distributed to the landholders. Whatever secrets the scroll contained, they worked: the blight receded, and the year's harvest was substantial enough to last the people another harsh winter. Arthur spun the wheels of court, soothing tempers and addressing petitions. It wasn't that he made a conscious effort to avoid the court physician. He was just...busy.

He found his way to the battlements every day, and in the unrelenting west wind, he would vow to talk to the old man. But he was never sure what he wanted to explain, and somehow he never made it to the physician's quarters. He could not decide if the truth was better or worse than the lie he had told. He would look over the city and try to remember every word Merlin spoke that day, blue eyes so clear in his thoughts that it was like a waking dream.

The day that Gwen sought him out, velvet streaming behind her like a banner in the fierce wind, he realized that what he was feeling was doubt, and a terrible guilt. He had lied to those closest to him, lied to his people. It had seemed the right choice at the time; it had seemed a kindness. But without someone to share the truth, it turned to poison in his mind. He woke up every morning aching to unburden himself, but he had cast out the one person he felt he could trust with anything. The fact that Gwen was _not _that person sent a shudder of shame through him.

"It's always so beautiful up here." His queen looked out over the city, and its fires were reflected in her eyes. Arthur trembled at the thought of what he would see reflected if she knew the truth about Merlin. When she turned to catch his gaze, he looked away. "A bit nippy, though. Are you coming inside anytime soon or should I have someone bring you a tent?"

"Just thinking."

"Well, don't think too hard. We wouldn't want you hurting yourself." It was so much like what Merlin would have said that he snapped his head around to look at her. She returned his gaze knowingly. "I know you miss him. And I know there's something you won't tell me, or anyone. And I'm not asking you to. But Arthur...this can't keep on."

He looked back over the ordered streets and the shadowed roofs of tradesmen and merchants. Just at the edge of sight, the dark shape of the encircling wall was visible. He had always believed that wall to be upheld by more than stone and mortar.

"You're right," he said, and began the long walk to Gaius's door.


	12. Passage VI

Outwardly, he looked the same, Arthur thought. He greeted his king deferentially, as he always had. He still wore the same modest robes, his hands smudged with ink, his quarters a miasma of herbal fragrances. But to Arthur's eyes, Gaius still looked...diminished. And the king knew exactly where the blame lay.

"I...I've come to confess, I suppose. And as I think you have more right to know the truth than anyone..." He stopped and looked away from the confusion on the other man's face. For a heartbeat he considered dropping the subject, but the memories rose in his mind as though demanding to be let free.

"It's about Merlin."

There was no sound, of course. But something crashed through the room nevertheless. Arthur felt like a boy, trying to explain actions that could not be justified. He had never felt like less of a king and he was beginning to think that, without Merlin, he wasn't one. But there was no going back now, so he began talking, the words rushing out of him like a venom too long withheld. He spoke of the tomb of Iamus, and the strange creatures that guarded it. He told the story in as much shameful detail as he could bear: Merlin's confession and his own blinding rage and the sword shaking in his hand...

_Merlin held his gaze, waiting. No shame. No fear. Just a fathomless sorrow. Arthur trembled and stared, looking for the enemy in his servant's eyes. Somehow, he could not find it. His vision blurred and he blinked the wetness out of his eyes, his grip on his sword hilt loosening until the blade fell, slipping to the floor. His jaw was clenched so tightly that he could not speak, but he had no words in any case. With one hand, he hauled Merlin to his feet, bringing his other arm around in a furious punch that sent the smaller man spinning to the floor._

_Merlin spit blood and looked up at the stone guardians from his knees. "Satisfied?"_

_Over the rushing in his ears, Arthur heard again the grinding of stone on stone. The doors of the tomb were opening inward, framed on either side by Anwur and Orsi, who had each dropped to one knee. They spoke in rumbling unison, as though reciting from memory. "Only the once and future king may pass this threshold. He shall be known not by the strength of his blade, but by the mercy in his heart."_

_"Well, go on. We have to get the scroll back to Gaius," Merlin insisted with his typical insolence. Arthur looked at him incredulously until the false cheer drained away. "I'm sorry, Arthur. It was the only way."_

_"Is it true?" he whispered. "Did you do all the things you said?"_

_"I..."_

_It was the all the answer required, and they both knew it. Arthur turned on his heel and marched into the tomb. The scroll was not hard to find, resting atop a sculpted sarcophagus. There were other treasures, but he ignored them. His limbs felt light and heavy at the same time, giving him a dream-like sensation of floating through the world without touching it. He marched back out and retrieved his sword, feeling Merlin's eyes on him with every movement. The sudden appearance of a rough-hewn stone staircase barely penetrated the fog around Arthur's mind. He marched out, and his servant scrambled to follow._

_When they returned to the surface, everything was as before. The bitter taste of magic sullied Arthur's tongue and he kept a white-knuckled grip on his blade. There was no sign of the stairs they had just climbed: only the slight, grassy depression and the weathered stone marker. Merlin's uncertainty was like a pressure against his skin and he wasn't sure what he was going to say until he said it._

_"You have committed treason against the crown. You are not to return to Camelot upon pain of death."_

_Arthur didn't look at Merlin, or wait for a response. He gathered the horses' reins and galloped away, leaving the person he had trusted more than any other alone on the vast heath._

Gaius had long ago turned his back to his king, standing hunched over his table with his head bowed. It was easier that way. For both of them, Arthur supposed. Despite the horrible gravity of the situation, he felt a mad giddiness now that the truth lay out in the open. He had achieved a terrible clarity.

"It's like one of your logic puzzles, isn't it? Merlin and magic don't make sense, because Merlin is loyal and magic is treason. So. One of those statements is false. But I fear I've questioned the wrong premise."

Silence stretched between them for long moments before Gaius turned and walked over to Arthur, raising a hand as he went. For a moment, Arthur thought he was going to strike him, and it seemed so natural and fitting that he didn't even move to defend himself. But the wizened fingers merely grasped his cheek in a brief echo of the tenderness he'd shown when Arthur was a boy. A moment later, Gaius was gone, leaving the king alone with the darkness and his memories.


	13. Passage VII

It was one of the smallest hamlets in Camelot, little more than a handful of buildings clustered around a crossroad. Arthur made it a point to be familiar with every acre of land under his banner, but even he had rarely visited this place. Merchants stopped here, not kings. It didn't even merit the attention of a lord; there was a magistrate, empowered by the crown to mete out minor justice in the king's name, but no men-at-arms and certainly no knights.

Arthur's decision to personally address the magistrate's petition had won him no friends at court. Even his own knights had barely masked their confusion when they found out the king would ride with them. Arthur had lobbed some inspiring words at them, but of course his own motives were more complicated than a simple desire to uphold chivalric values. Whispers were already circulating, and though none of them would come close to the truth, it was a matter he would have to address eventually. Arthur knew from hard experience that a false rumor could do as much damage as a true one. Agravaine, for all his treachery, had been right about that much.

"Sire," the magistrate whispered when Arthur entered his modest (by Camelot's standards) two-story inn. The king sighed inwardly, resigning himself to an evening of trembling subservience. He had never missed Merlin's insolence so much as he did just then.

"Kieon, was it?"

"Yes, sire."

"Sit with me." He gestured to one of the rough-hewn tables, but made sure the move was an imperious one. Men like Kieon didn't want their view of royalty overturned in one day. It was enough that the king himself had deemed the town's troubles important enough for his attention. If said king shared a tankard with him, he might very well lose the power of speech. Arthur settled into one of the rickety chairs as though he owned the place, and watched calmly as Kieon slowly perched on the bench across from him. "You said they come only at night?"

"Yes, sire."

"How many have died?"

"Two, sire. Young Mary and the blacksmith, Glenn."

"This was the first night?"

"Yes, sire."

"No deaths since then?"

"No, sire."

"And did anyone actually _see_ these creatures attack Mary and Glenn?"

"Sire?"

"Did anyone watch this happen, or did you simply find the bodies in the morning?"

For the first time, the magistrate hesitated, looking Arthur almost directly in the eye. "Well, sire, I didn't see the creatures myself. I've heard them. Terrible, terrible sounds. Like no animal that walks or crawls."

"Who _has _seen them?"

"Mary's sister. Blythe. She said she heard a sound like demon screaming from the depths of hell, and a dark winged shape. When she went into the yard, her sister was..."

"I see. Thank you, Kieon. You've been very helpful."

"Yes, sire." The man's wide eyes followed Arthur out of the tavern, but the king quickly put it from his mind. Nightfall was not far off, and it was a tricky business sneaking off into the woods when one was surrounded by knights and servants. He strolled across the commons, watching his men carry out their instructions. Well, most of his men. Gwaine was chatting up a barmaid; the ale-soaked sellsword liked a woman who could pour a tankard in exotic positions.

Yes, Gwaine would do nicely.


	14. Passage VIII

A short time later, Arthur left the vociferous complaints of jealous husbands behind and trotted beneath the shadowed trees. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for - it found him, in point of fact. A dark winged shape, eyes glowing with the fierce light of sorcery, descended from the trees in a rush, landing with all the weight of its lithic bulk. "Arthur Pendragon," it intoned. Arthur recognized the deep voice of Anwur.

"I thought I might find you here. It seems you've been giving the locals a bit of a scare."

"Our roost is nearby. We have hunted the dark creatures, but more arrive every night. The Old Man thinks we should follow them to _their _roost."

"The Old Man?"

"You have much to discuss. Come." He turned and began slipping between the grey-white trunks with an unaccountable grace. Arthur followed, watching the dip and bob of the great stone wings, folded across the massive shoulders like a strange cape.

"The people of the village blame you for the attacks."

"We did not reach them in time the first night. We take turns guarding the palisade now. None have broken through, but their numbers grow."

They followed no path that Arthur could see (a fact which had him spitting spider silk more than once) and a quarter of an hour passed before they reached their destination. The foliage thinned, opening to a small glade. They were close now to the hill called the Sleeping Giant, and on the far side of the clearing, the ground grew steep and rocky. On one of the tumbled bones of the mountain, a old man in a red robe sat cross-legged, poring over a battered book. Arthur was about to comment on the lack of reading light when he recognized the wizened features and tremendous beard, and everything flew out of his mind at once. When he came back to himself, he found that he had crossed the distance between them, that his sword was drawn and trembling against the man's throat. The creatures of stone watched from the darkness, but seemed content to take their cue from the sorcerer.

Arthur looked into resigned blue eyes and remembered the day his father died, as well as the day Merlin confessed to the deed. He'd come alone because he'd been looking for answers, hoping that the world was not as dark as it seemed. Now he wondered if what he really wanted was vengeance. Just a bit more pressure and it would be blood for blood. Justice for a slaughtered king. The moments stretched into a weighty silence, and all Arthur heard was the sound of his own heartbeat crashing against his ears.

His hesitation should have cost him his life. But no lightning blazed forth from the spindly hands. No unnatural wind hurtled Arthur backwards. The sorcerer simply waited, and the king (though he could not say why) had the strongest feeling that this man would acquiesce to any punishment he decided to mete out. But he was caught by those eyes, arrested by his own recognition of the man he had come to find.

"Merlin?" It came out as a broken whisper, more a plea than a question.

The old man's lips moved a few times before he spoke, his voice husky with regret. "I tried, Arthur. I swear to you, I tried. And I failed you. For that I am so sorry."

Arthur found that it was easy to believe him. When he'd been a dark-robed stranger, when the wound was so raw and so fresh, it was impossible to see anything but betrayal. Now he just felt tired. He let the belligerent tension drain away, his expression softening. "Take off that ridiculous disguise. You look like a mad hermit."

A sly smile spread slowly over Merlin's face, at odds with the tears still brimming in those deceptively bright eyes. "Does this mean the period of my exile is over?"

"Well, you've hardly obeyed the terms of that exile, now have you?"

"On the contrary. Merlin hasn't set foot in Camelot since that day."

"Gluing whiskers to your face doesn't make you a different person."

"I _feel _like a different person," he mused, stretching his limbs gingerly. "My back creaks louder than a double-axled wagon and I can't seem to stop eating lentils."

"For someone who is so concerned about the size of other people's belts, you do chatter on about food."

Arthur tried to remain nonchalant, but when the old man whispered a few words and became _his_ Merlin, he had to catch his breath. There was no flash of light or thunderous report; he simply..._shifted_. And when he doubled over in a coughing fit, Arthur realized that it hadn't been an illusion but a real transformation of Merlin's body. The thought was a bit disturbing, and he groped for his customary lazy arrogance.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

After a few frog-like attempts at speech, Merlin expressed an opinion about the king's anatomical measurements. "You don't know how many times my skill has saved your life."

"I've got along fine since the famine," he lied.

"Really! Then I suppose you know that Lord Ousden has been meeting with-"

"Southron warlords, yes. I've told you before, Merlin: I'm not _completely_ helpless." Arthur turned and began walking back through the trees. "Are we going to stand here all night gossiping like magpies or are we going to take of these, er...what exactly are these creatures attacking the village?"

Merlin grinned and jogged to his side.

**THE END (FINALLY)**


	15. The Climbing Wave

**Title: **The Climbing Wave_  
_**Rating: **PG-13_  
_**Pairing/s: **None._  
_**Character/s: **Arthur, Merlin, Mordred._  
_**Summary: **Sometimes winning doesn't feel like it. _  
_**Warnings: **Someone probably doesn't survive._  
_**Word Count: **564_  
_**Prompt: **#21 Promise

_Let us alone. What pleasure can we have  
To war with evil? Is there any peace  
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?  
_-Tennyson, "The Lotos-Eaters"

A broad stroke of Arthur's sword sends a plume of gore hurtling through the air.

_"Camelot does not fall today. Trust me."_

_"Were you born a blind fool, Merlin? Or did you have to study at it?'_

His knights flow behind him like a red tide, their devotion bearing him forward to the suicidal plunge.

_"These men would follow you into a dragon's mouth."_

_"And die for their stupidity. Courage can't make men fly."_

They are near the edge; he can feel it as a buzzing in the air, the beckoning of nothing.

_"Where can you flee where your own shadow won't follow? We must face this. And we will win."_

_"I will fall with a blade in my hand. That much I concede."_

He screams against the dark and somehow his boots find firm footing. Against all reason, his sword arm keeps the same methodical rhythm. He thinks that maybe the fates missed his death somehow, but everything just _continues_, until he finds himself stumbling into the fortress of his enemy.

_"Just promise me you won't hesitate."_

_"Okay, I promise. I promise that if rain starts falling up and the sun is setting in the east and somehow I manage to get close enough to strike the most powerful sorcerer that has ever lived, I won't hold back."_

It's much clearer now, looking into startling blue eyes that he almost doesn't recognize. They're a lot like Merlin's, full of the same cerulean fire, but they burn cold as hell itself.

_"I mean it. Just because he was worth saving once doesn't mean his life should be spared at the cost of the kingdom's."_

_"What exactly aren't you telling me?"_

He protected this boy once. Took pity on his tears, his terror. Defied his father in the name of mercy. Knights fall around him until he stands alone, but the shadows can't seem to touch him. They dance at the edges of his vision, and Mordred frowns.

_"Just...strike, when the time comes."_

_"I'll tell you whom I'm going to strike..."_

The sword is light as air, but it slices through flesh like the wrath of the sun, a blinding edge that carries all of Albion's hopes and strength. It bites through the throne beneath, shattering granite and bringing the entire ensorcelled castle tumbling down.

Is this the wages of compassion? To destroy what was once so precious? Again, the king of Camelot falls, and this time he lets go of his sword.

_"I've put a lot of work into you. Don't screw it up."_

_"You wouldn't know work if it bit you in your skinny arse."_

It's morning when he wakes, the first morning he has seen in over a year. It's so bright, he can barely stand it and so wonderful that he thinks he must be dead. A blurry shape leans over him and he throws up a hand to shade his eyes. The ears come into focus first, followed by the blazing, ridiculous grin. That's when he knows it's over.

"I hope you're not thinking of tramping through my chambers like that. You're covered in blood, Merlin."

"You're not. Slept through the battle, did you? Where's your sword?"

"It was time to cast it away.'


	16. Beacon

**Title:** Beacon  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** None  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin.  
**Summary:** This is what my brain does when I hear "Unity" by Shinedown.  
**Word Count:** 346

**Beacon**

It began as little more than a whisper. Idle conversation between servant and king.

_"They will come, Arthur. If you call."_

Its origin was in Camelot. Her stones sung first, and they carried their song far beyond the city's walls.

_"You've made peace with enemies before."_

_"Not this enemy. Not this time."_

It spread inexorably, crashing against the druid encampments like a wave. And then it moved on, swirling into the far corners of Albion with a reverberating cry.

_"You said the old man may have been trying to help. What if there are others?"_

_"There are none such as he. You know that, Merlin."_

The wind muttered it. The streams whispered it. The earth thundered with it. Sages and seers turned their eyes to the west.

_"If they did come? If they offered their swords to you, would you accept them?"_

_"Since when do sorcerers use swords?"_

_"It's a metaphor, you illiterate twit."_

It was a name written in the bones of the earth, as much a part of the land as her hills and valleys. It was a name written in the hearts of many who had lost everything else except this last desperate hope whose shape they did not even know. They heard, and they came.

_"You said yourself that we'd be helpless before her magic."_

_"Even if we had a hundred sorcerers, what could they do against such power?"_

_"They could believe. There is power in that, Arthur."_

They brought their fire and their fury, but the golden king withheld his blade. For the hate in his heart had faded to ashes, and he was weary of war. They sought their champion, and found him standing at the side of their enemy.

His was the stillness of the river that runs; the whisper of the wind that shapes the mountain. His power flowed deep and steady, twined around the pillars of the earth and sky. They saw then that Camelot would not be destroyed but reborn, and when Emrys knelt before his king, all the magic of the world knelt with him.


	17. Epochs and Ages

**Title:** Epochs and Ages  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s: **None.  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary: **Sometimes time runs out before we've said all we need to say.  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Word Count:** 832  
**Prompt:** The cheapest bourbon money can buy.

**Epochs and Ages**

Arthur's blood was still singing with the aftermath of battle: a heady combination of relief and fading terror and that animal instinct that drives men to violence. There would be revelry this night, drinking and singing and screaming at the wonder of being alive when so many had died. The memory of many brave men would be honored, and pieces of shattered lives would be swept up and cobbled together. The world would go on.

Yet when he saw a slim figure standing at the cliff's edge, he suddenly felt that this victory was an ending. Like something had passed from the world that would never return. He strode toward the ceaseless crashing of the sea below, his sweat and blood-slicked skin steaming in the cool wind. When he reached the edge, he could see the water pounding against the earth and slipping away in rivulets, like desperate fingers clutching after something they could not grasp.

Merlin didn't turn when his king came to stand beside him. His skin was as pale as Arthur's was flushed, his hands unbloodied, his plain traveling cloak unstained. He made an incongruous picture on a battlefield. But then, he had always seemed out of place, a whispered riddle that could never be answered. He was staring at the horizon where the restless sea met an angry sky, and Arthur could not fathom his expression. The imperious reprimand he'd intended to deliver crumbled before it passed his lips.

"I never told you the meaning of those runes, did I?" He said it almost absently, eyes still fixed on that uncountable distance. Arthur frowned in confusion, until Merlin turned and took hold of the bare blade in his hand, lifting it gently from Arthur's grasp and holding it horizontally before him. The gold-etched symbols shone under a sheath of blood. "Take me up." He flipped the weapon over. "Cast me away."

"I don't understand."

"You will." He handed it back, his eyes sliding over the water once again, as though the words he wanted could be read in the waves. As the silence lengthened, Arthur tried to shake off the portentous gloom his servant was projecting.

"Come on. You can stare into space while you clean my armor," he joked weakly. But Merlin made no move to follow him back to the encampment. Instead, he drew himself up like a man facing his executioner.

"You've bought an enduring peace here, Arthur. But you have other enemies who will not rest. And I promise you that I won't either." He turned to his king then, eyes bright with fear and conviction. "My loyalty to you has never wavered. Not for a _moment_. You have to believe that, no matter what else happens."

"I believe you," Arthur assured him, discomfited by the naked terror in his eyes. But Merlin continued as though he hadn't spoken.

"I have bent all my power to protect what you have built. And I would not leave your side except the need were dire."

"Merlin, what are you-"

"There are things you _have _to know. But I haven't the time. Just...don't lose faith in yourself? Promise me that? Hate me if you like, but never doubt that you were born to rule the Five Kingdoms."

Arthur knew his mouth was hanging open, but he didn't have the strength to close it. Merlin turned his head and closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as though in pain.

"I lied to you. Bruta never wielded that sword. It was made for you, and you alone. You're the true king. You always have been. You always will be."

There was a roaring in Arthur's ears that wasn't the sea. He wanted to scream at Merlin and punch him and hug him all at once, and so he did nothing. He felt as though the earth were tilting beneath him, and he wondered why he didn't fly off into the empty air to be dashed against the rocky shoreline. And then Merlin was looking at him again, arresting him with a desperate pleading.

The plea turned to a golden fury, and Arthur felt a power that thrummed with the weight of the earth and the radiance of the sun. He'd been touched by magic before, but this went beyond any enchantment or spell. This was a raw, elemental force, colored with a hopeless devotion. Arthur had seen sorcerers disappear in a swirl of wind, but this was something else entirely. Merlin was there, and then he just..._wasn't_.

Alone on the cliff's edge, he reeled and almost stumbled. A hundred feet below him, the waves still assaulted the shore, an endless sighing roar that whispered secrets to those who would listen. He looked down at the weapon in his hand, crimson blood drying on its burnished length.

With a single smooth motion, he flung the sword out over the water. It flashed with reflected sunlight even under the cloudy sky, tumbling end over end until the white-capped waves embraced it.


	18. The Doors of Perception

**Title:** The Doors of Perception  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/s:** None.  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** The day Arthur realizes there's more to Merlin's courage than he had originally assumed.  
**Warnings:** Some necromantic gore.  
**Word Count:** 660  
**Prompt:** #26 Assumption

**The Doors of Perception**

When dawn broke over the mist-shrouded hills, it fell on a field littered with the bodies of the slain. The recently dead lay mingled with corpses that had long ago rotted to the bone, casting a macabre tint over an already grim picture. Arthur had never missed a hot bath as much as he did just then; he smelled of blood and death. The damp air somehow made it worse, steeping the stench like a hellish herb.

He wanted nothing more than to gather his knights and leave the whole distasteful business behind, and he would have been well within the bounds of law and tradition. Knights (and even less so kings) did not collect the remains of the fallen, except to honor one of their own. That was the province of women, healers, and ditch-diggers.

But there were no families searching the field for their dead, no healers tending to the grievously wounded. If Arthur wanted a pit dug (and he did - the site of the battle was too near the town for his liking), he would have to order it himself. The people of Willowmere were hovering on the outskirts of their home, looking as shocked and drained as Arthur felt. They'd been attacked by the gruesome remains of their own ancestors and relatives; reburying the bodies was probably more than they could bear.

So the king set about the task of clearing away the remnants of battle. To his great relief, his knights obeyed the unusual orders without question or hesitation. Even Merlin was uncharacteristically silent, and Arthur couldn't even muster his customary ridicule. It was hard to be jovial when you'd just lost good men to a sorcerer who could call the dead from their graves.

Maybe that bleak atmosphere was the reason he noticed the look on Merlin's face and did not, for once, dismiss it. He'd learned long ago that his servant was not nearly as cowardly as he appeared, and had begun to assume that Merlin simply exposed his fear more readily than others. In truth, it made Arthur admire his courage all the more, though he would admit it under no circumstances short of impending death. As he watched Merlin assisting the knights, he realized that there was something more at work, though he couldn't put his finger on it until the man in question approached him.

"These bodies must be burnt, Arthur." His sharp features were pale and ghostly in the rising light, accentuating the urgent dread in his eyes.

"There are too many. We couldn't possibly give all of them the proper rites. I promise we'll be as respectful-"

"No, I mean these bodies must be _burnt_. Set them on fire. All at once, if you have to."

"_I _have to do _what_, now?" Arthur allowed his typical disdain to creep into his tone. He'd thought Merlin was being softhearted, but now he was commanding his king to desecrate the bodies of the dead?

"These people were raised by dark magic. Destroying the bodies isn't enough. They must be cleansed. Or these poor souls will never be at rest." His eyes were drawn away reluctantly as he spoke, staring with naked horror at a particularly gruesome corpse as it was dragged past by a red-cloaked knight.

But Merlin wasn't staring at the corpse. He wasn't seeing the gaping eyesockets where the jelly had rotted away or the leathery remains of skin painted across bone. He was looking past that, to a vision more repugnant than anything the king or his knights could see.

Arthur got it right then, in that moment as he watched the dread and revulsion twist his friend's expression. Merlin _knew_. He saw things hidden to others, like a sighted man in a land of the blind. While the rest of them marched blindly into battle like blinkered horses, Merlin's eyes were on the true, hidden perils.

For Arthur, it was the beginning of the end.


	19. Ward

**Title:** Ward  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** None.  
**Character/s:** Freya, Merlin  
**Summary:** Merlin turns his body into Camelot's first defense against a powerful dark magic, but his vigilance comes at a cost.  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Word Count:** 286  
**Prompt:** Tattoos

**Ward**

He comes when it becomes too much, when his skin burns like a thousand tiny suns trying to escape from his blood. He comes when the secrets he keeps are bleeding out of him like wine through silk. He lies bare-chested in the snow, his marred skin pouring heat into the night air and setting it alight. She sits at the threshold between her world and his, where the water meets the earth, and her fingers trace the swirling pattern of the gate on his back.

He came to her on the first night, when the cathars' ink was fresh and he hadn't yet adjusted to the weight on his shoulders. And now he comes when he can't contain his cries, when all the demons of hell are pounding at the bars of their cage and the only thing holding them back is the knife's edge of his will. He comes so that he can be in agony, and she wishes for the days when he would be absent for months or years, because even though the lack of him was a gutter in her heart, she knew that he was happy.

She gives him what comfort she can, soothing the burn of his burden with her waters. It's not enough, but it's all she has to give. He never asks for anything, but she knows the silence itself is a respite. He comes, and she is there, and that is enough to bridge today with tomorrow. He will fold all his sorrows back inside, and return to the mute service of his king. And when he leaves, she will rest in the patience of the still water and wonder why tomorrow never seems to come.


	20. Pursuing

**Title:** Pursuing  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** It's not what it looks like.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 253  
**Prompt:** #29 - Misunderstanding

**Pursuing**

His breath is a mad thing, hammering through his chest and bursting into the open air, where it dies over and over. With each urgent exhalation, he is closer to exhaustion. It does not matter. Mailed boots slide precipitously on the glassy steps. His pace increases despite the danger.

He reaches the limit of the twisting staircase and emerges onto a windswept battlement. The north wind presses down like a giant's hand, snapping his cloak behind him. But it's the scene playing out on the parapets that brings him to a halt: Merlin somehow towering over a beast ten times his size. Arthur watches with mingled horror and awe as the massive, horned head lowers submissively.

He's not sure when he draws his blade. He doesn't feel the steel sliding from the sheath, just the weight of it like judgment in his hand. Startled blue eyes meet his in a crash of agonizing realizations. He has never felt so powerless, or less like a king. He's walking forward, but it is the past he sees: a thousand double-edged glances, words that meant more than they said. Blue is burning away to gold, and he should be terrified.

Instead, it is Merlin who flees, power spilling about him like discarded armor. He follows the great beast into the open air, leaving the stones of the dark castle shivering with whispers of sorcery. Arthur's mouth is open, in plea or prayer, but he's so suddenly alone that the words never make it to his lips.


	21. Restless

**Title:** Restless  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Merlin  
**Summary:** Set after the S4 finale. Merlin is haunted by the actions he took in defense of his king.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 429  
**Prompt:** #30 - Ghosts  
**Author's Notes:** Bit of a rush job. Probably should have left it at 210, but I didn't quite get the angle I was going for.

The wind is a constant song in his ear, reminding him that he is alone.

As he should be.

He has tumbled through the last two days on a raft of hope and destiny. He should be content with his accomplishments, but peace is a greater agony than war. Leashing Morgana's magic took all of his ingenuity and a large share of his power, but at least he couldn't dwell on the past while all his thoughts were bent to that single end.

Now the chaos of rebuilding shatters his days into a thousand tiny tasks, and the memories slip into the cracks. He is afraid that he will say something to Arthur, or Gwen, or a servant passing in the hall, _anyone_. He wants to scream his crime to the world, whether for absolution or condemnation, he does not know. Yet now, when the gusts of the first winter storm will carry the words safely away, he cannot find his voice.

That day in the forest, his bones sang the song of the dragon, but the notes were twisted by his cowardice. He didn't want to get his hands dirty, didn't want to do the killing himself. He thought if he didn't see it, somehow it wouldn't matter.

It matters.

He has thought often on the nature of magic, its sources and effects. He sometimes discusses his thoughts with Gaius, but they always end up talking past each other. The old man still thinks in terms of the ancient rituals and forgotten gods. He is a man of learning, but he doesn't _feel_ as Merlin does. The world has a pulse, and magic beats in time with it, inextricably bound to the elements and forces that turn the seasons and breathe vitality into the earth. To Gaius, magic is a tool that can be used to preserve life or destroy it. To Merlin, it _is_ life.

When he closes his eyes, he sees Agravaine leaning forward, deadly intent written across his features. He feels his magic, his _life_, rising like a tide and even though he knows he must use it, it is an awful, self-defeating thing. He can hardly bear it. In mere heartbeats, corpses litter the ground like discarded leaves, destroyed by the very power that created them.

He sees them in his dreams, and their ghosts cling to his mind like smoke. He smells flesh seared by dragon fire, and watches blood pooling beneath still, faceless forms. He repeats his justifications like prayers, but there is no one to hear them. Only the unforgiving dead.


	22. Claenheort

**Title:** Clænheort  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Merlin, Arthur  
**Summary:** For Arthur, anything.  
**Warnings:** Somewhat dark.  
**Word Count:** 193  
**Prompt:** #31 Heartbeat  
**Author's Notes:** N/A

He cast his awareness out like a fisherman's net, instantly aware of every stone and plank that formed the lower town. The heartbeats of the invaders stood out with a ghastly tolling, and his magic sought them with deadly heat and ferocity. The spell was of his own devising, a fact that would have horrified him only a few years previously. But wars have a way of changing men; what once seemed unthinkable becomes routine when the streets run red with the blood of the fallen. Before, he'd had to push himself to use the magic that was his life in such a destructive way, but now it was as natural as breathing.

"_Deadlic ligbyrne ge__æ_led."

As he spoke the words, his power tumbled after them, seeking out those steady beats and ending them in agony. He'd done the same so many times that it had ceased to have any meaning for him. It was just one more duty that he performed for his king.

But this time, when he turned away from the battlements, he found Arthur behind him, a bare blade in his hand and a horrible devastation in his eyes.


	23. Summit of Two

**Title:** Summit of Two  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** Arthur and Merlin discuss economic intervention.  
**Warnings:** Thinly veiled political philosophy.  
**Word Count:** 431  
**Prompt:** #32 Laugh

"I know I can count on your uncomprehending and thus unbiased perspective, Merlin."

"Yes, sire," came the expected and subtly flippant reply.

"There's no written law," Arthur continued, pausing to ravage another chicken bone. "But there's an awful lot of precedent. It's expected that I will accede to Torlon's request."

The wardrobe trembled slightly and made some disinterested "mm-hmm" noises as Merlin rescued a discarded glove from the clutches of a cobweb.

"My father would have." His voice sounded tremulous to his own ears, and he found himself staring out over the city lights, thinking about the thousands of people who depended on Camelot's walls. He was so deep in thought that he nearly jumped out of his skin when Merlin spoke from his right elbow.

"And?"

"And...they're right. I should reward Torlon's loyalty. I just..."

"...can't help but feel that you'd be betraying every person you've sworn to protect? That the crown's traditional favoritism is utterly incompatible with the virtues of the round table?"

Arthur blinked. "I wasn't going to say that."

"Of course, sire. That's why I said it for you."

Arthur resumed his meal while Merlin remained a perfect model of solicitousness, his eyes brimming with rebellion. They had made him laugh once: the ridiculous notions that his servant held about the world. Arthur had chalked it up to Merlin's being born in a tiny village where the most impractical idealism might be sheltered from the violence that governed the dealings of men. But the more Merlin echoed the whispers of Arthur's own heart, the less humor he found in the situation.

"So you think as Grenvois, then? Strip Torlon of his titles and cede his lands to the people of Downtry?"

"It is tempting. But your defense of the peasants is meaningless if you allow them to become as privileged as the nobles were."

"And what is your solution, oh wise bearer of cups?" Arthur watched with faint amusement as Merlin refilled his goblet.

"If Torlon wants the land, he can purchase it from the people of Downtry. And when he hitches the plow before the horse again, let them buy it back for a tenth of the price. He will have no one but himself to blame for his beggary, and the people will use his wealth to make the fields more productive than they were before."

Arthur stared. "Where _do_ you get these ideas, Merlin?"

"I thought that was the point of the table. 'Equality in all things.' Which, while we're on the subject, means I'm due a day off."

This time Arthur _did _laugh.


	24. As We Were

**Title:** As We Were  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** Arthur finally catches up to Merlin.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Prompt:** #33 Choices  
**Author's Notes:** N/A

"Merlin."

He stopped, because he'd heard Arthur say his name with exasperation, with fondness, with mock contempt...but never with such crushing weariness. He stopped, but didn't turn around. For a moment, it seemed as though the entire world stood on a knife's edge, and then his king spoke, and it all slid apart in shivering pieces.

"What crime are you committing in my name this time? Theft? Oathbreaking? Murder?"

Merlin closed his eyes, and all he saw was darkness, deceit and hard choices. "All that and more, my king."

He didn't look back, but let Arthur's voice trail behind him.


	25. Heavy Is the Book

**Title:** Heavy Is the Book That Clobbers the Servant  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** Merlin cleans. Arthur butchers words. Sometimes he just wants to hit his servant in the head with a book.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 550  
**Prompt:** #28 Jealousy (#35 Amnesty Post)

Arthur scratched out another section of hasty scrawl and began idly calculating the share of his personal wealth that went to discarded parchment. He'd never been a man of words, and penning a missive was particularly difficult when Merlin was flouncing about his chambers, tidying everything in sight except the king's syntax. The skinny git had been spontaneously volunteering his rhetorical assistance for months, but had apparently decided it was time to make Arthur beg for the privilege of recycling his pretty words.

He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on how he should word his unofficial endorsement of Nemeth's pressure on their neighbor. Instead, he found himself watching Merlin's precarious efforts to swipe his rag across surfaces no one would ever see. It was infuriating, though not for the reasons he allowed Merlin to presume.

Arthur had always thought of himself as fair-minded. He had made great strides in convincing the nobility to admit that they weren't the only ones with sharp wits or strong swords. Ironically, he had his father to thank for laying that foundation. Despite his belief in the superiority of the lords and the irrelevancy of the peasants, Uther had been practical enough to recognize the value of the tradesman. Much of Camelot's wealth had been bought in blood, but an even greater amount had been accumulated on the backs of blacksmiths, carpenters, coopers, bricklayers and a hundred other ordinary people whose activities had been encouraged by the crown.

Merlin, of course, had piled a mountain of shattered preconceptions on top of that foundation. Arthur had relentlessly mocked him, as was his right, but Merlin had never bowed. Even his obedience was insolent. Time and time again he had insisted that Arthur was exceptional; yet Merlin's integrity put the lie to the nobility's traditional claims of superiority. He was a man of liberally expressed convictions, and the king often envied him that. Arthur had to consider how his own reactions would be viewed by the court, his enemies, his people. But Merlin could _act_. Though his days were filled with the dullest, most onerous tasks Arthur could devise, he was nevertheless the freest man that Arthur had ever known.

The king felt his irritation rising, directed as much at himself as his servant. He'd long ago established a straightforward prescription for situations like this. Winging a book at his servant's head was not an action befitting Arthur's station. But where Merlin was concerned, custom (and even nature herself) held little sway.

It was a hefty tome, filled with the cramped scribbles of several generations of seneschals. Arthur had found that ledgers made the most satisfying thump. Poetry packed more of a sharp wallop, but there was something immensely gratifying in using the detritus of bureaucracy to punish Merlin's insouciance. The dark head dipped like a rabbit plunging into its hole, and the book smashed against the far wall with a papery thud.

"What was that for?" Merlin demanded, as though he didn't already know.

"You missed a spot."

Arthur returned to his pathetic attempts at eloquence. Merlin huffed and collected the book, depositing it on the desk with a pointed slam. He observed Arthur efforts for a few moments, then snatched the quill from his king's hand with a long-suffering sigh.


	26. Size Matters

**Title:** Size Matters  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/s:** Arthur/Gwen  
**Character/s:** Merlin, Arthur  
**Summary:** Arthur and Merlin are trudging through dire peril yet again.  
**Warnings:** No kissing. :(  
**Word Count:** 417  
**Prompt:** #36 Mistletoe  
**Author's Notes:** Pudding!

Arthur was thinking about spits.

Of course, he hadn't spitted his own kill since he met Merlin, but every branch that he swiped out of his face reminded him that he could be smelling deliciously roasting meat instead of trudging through a dense wood eerily devoid of fauna. Exhaustion was clouding the edges of his vision with fleeting shadows, and more than once he imagined he saw a rabbit or pigeon speared by the skeletal switches of the barren trees.

Merlin's silence didn't help. It was more unnatural than this godforsaken place. At times, Arthur felt that Merlin's inane chatter was some sort of good luck charm, warding off danger with a ridiculous obduracy that even Death itself shunned. Even if dire peril caught up to him, Merlin would no doubt talk his way out of the underworld. Arthur quite literally could not imagine an existence where Merlin was absent from his side.

It was the effort to draw his shivering friend into conversation, more than anything else, which motivated Arthur to lunge for the tangled mess of greenery stuck in the snow-laden branches.

"Ha! I told you we'd not starve to death. Berries!"

"That's mistletoe, Arthur." A weary sigh, but his blue eyes were narrowing with impending mirth. When Arthur favored him with a blank look, he elaborated. "Dungbranch? It's poisonous."

Arthur hastily dropped the offending fruit and wiped a sticky hand on his armor. "Well. I'm sure we'll find something."

Merlin, meanwhile, broke off a sprig of the bright evergreen and inexplicably pocketed it. Arthur gave him an arch look before shaking his head and continuing his plodding march. "I hope you're not planning on serving me dungbranch tea."

"It's a thought."

"Thanks."

"You know, there's an old story about mistletoe," Merlin offered after a short silence. Arthur didn't encourage him to continue, but of course he needed no urging. "The goddess Frigg is supposed to have asked every living thing not to harm Baldr, which made him invincible. But she neglected to extract an oath from the mistletoe, because it seemed so young and harmless. Baldr was killed by an arrow fashioned from this unassuming wood."

"And what, wise scholar, shall we learn from this tale?"

"Sometimes it's not the size of your sword that matters," Merlin responded sagely.

"Is _that_ what you tell women?"

"Well, Gwen was quite concerned. I felt it my duty to offer her some consolation, however false."

Looking ahead at their darkening and increasingly hopeless path, Arthur smiled.


	27. Rule of Law

**Title:** Rule of Law  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** In the end, it's Arthur who counsels Merlin.  
**Warnings:** Mild gore.  
**Word Count:** 369  
**Prompt:** Snow  
**Author's Notes:** No spoilers, but this is inspired by a certain sympathy I feel for Arthur lately.

He weaves forward one trembling stumble at a time. The remnants of his power are shifting inside him like broken bones, their edges jagged and uncomfortable. The wind is a long scream, shattering the air into chaos and multitudes. The snow before his eyes is dark with the churning of booted feet and the blood of the fallen. Where it has been scraped away to reveal the flagstones of the courtyard, the stone seems like an emptiness that could swallow an unwary step.

He reaches the impromptu court before the sword falls, and he thinks he is in time. It is his duty to counsel his king, after all. In the past, he has moved Arthur's heart to mercy, guiding the terrible weight of his justice to those deserving of wrath. He will listen. He must.

Eyes meet his, pale and battle-weary. Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur just shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. There is an iron silence blanketing the gathered knights, their faces crimson with the blood of enemies and allies alike. Merlin wants to argue, but he sees the red-cloaked corpses of men who have ridden at his side, knights of Albion's round table, and their blood can never be washed away.

Arthur's mouth is grimly set, and there is a sorrow in the lines of his face that will never leave him. He does not relish this day as a victory. It is a harsh duty he performs, as inexorable as the rising and setting of the sun. The world he has built does not allow him to indulge his sympathies. To unbind himself from the law is to shackle his people to his will, and he would die before subjecting them to even a benevolent tyranny.

The king raises his own battle-scarred blade, and the sorcerer's head tumbles into the crimson slush. Merlin tries to feel some grief for the life he tried so hard to save, but the boy's own crimes are strewn across the ground in a tangled mess of frozen viscera, and it is hard not to feel that it always had to end this way, in the mourning wail of the north wind and the relentlessly rising drifts.


	28. Wings of War

**Title:** Wings of War  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Merlin, Arthur  
**Summary:** Faced with a threat greater than any Camelot has ever known, Merlin searches other worlds for a magic strong enough to defend the kingdom.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 240  
**Prompt:** #39 Silver  
**Author's Notes:** This is what happens when I play _Darksiders_ on drabble day.

They burned silver and white, hotter than the sun and more pitiless. But they were as beautiful as they were strange, and Merlin always had a weakness for beautiful magic. How many times had he told others to beware of such loveliness? How many times had he seen innocent blood on otherwise pristine hands? Sages have filled books with gorgeous creatures that can kill in an instant. Merlin should have known better.

But he saw them take to the skies on wings of snow and light. He saw the dawn of another world pouring over quicksilver armor. They moved with grace like sunbeams, eyes blazing with something more elemental than mere sorcery. They were pure guardians, and Merlin could have sworn he was looking at Arthur's warrior spirit condensed into adamant flesh. They asked for a human vessel, and Merlin gave them one.

He had always known that the Pendragon legend would outlast Camelot itself. Albion would sing the song of her shining king for ages upon ages. But Merlin hadn't guessed the terrible price that Arthur would pay to protect his shores. No vision had shown him Arthur's eyes hollowed out and replaced with silver fire. No prophecy or premonition had revealed the terrible heat of Arthur's sword, or the sound of the earth shaking beneath his boots.

The power that burned in Arthur had saved the kingdom, but Merlin wept when he realized that the king was lost.


	29. Tatters and Ghosts

**Title:** Tatters and Ghosts  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** Arthur and Merlin raid a sorcerer's tower and find something odd.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 292  
**Prompt:** #40 Leather  
**Author's Notes:** I've decided that Merlin is a deadbeat dragon dad.

The knights fanned out around them as they stepped into the top room of the sorcerer's tower. Arthur spared a few glances for Gwaine, Percival, and Elyon as he directed them to cover the exits. Then he turned his attention to the frightening clutter of arcane objects littering the bookshelves and tables. Merlin wandered off on his own, blue eyes bright with calculation, as though he saw something the rest of them did not. Arthur supposed that, working with a physician as learned as Gaius, he did. Could probably rattle off a dozen uses for all these foul-smelling herbs.

The king couldn't help curling his lip a bit as he examined one of the work tables. It was scattered with unsavory ingredients and strange items fashioned from unthinkable sources. He wondered idly what sort of animal had been used to make the bone-handled knife sticking out of a bowl of reptile eyes. He decided that he didn't want to know, and was about to turn away when the snowy-white corner of some sort of cloth caught his eye. He pulled it out from underneath several books and a bottle of pickled unmentionables. As his fingers brushed the surface, he realized it was leather: the softest, most supple leather he had ever seen.

Merlin wandered up then, and Arthur showed him the scrap. "What do make of this? I've never seen such quality. It certainly didn't come from any cattle I've ever seen."

His servant stared, his face turning as white as the mysterious fragment. "It's dragonskin." His voice was a hollow, gutted whisper. Arthur nearly shivered at the sound of it. Before he could ask what had so disturbed his friend, Merlin turned, eyes shining in the torchlight, and retreated to the stairwell.


	30. Candle in the Dark

**Title:** Candle in the Dark  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:**  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin, Gwaine, Leon, Percival  
**Summary:** When all other lights go out.  
**Warnings:**  
**Word Count:** 390  
**Prompt:** Ball  
**Author's Notes:**

Arthur adjusts his grip on the silvery iron hilt of his sword. It's the only sign of uneasiness he will allow himself. He feels Leon at his right shoulder and Gwaine at his left, mail scraping against mail. At his back, Percival throws down the torches and unsheathes his greatsword.

The pale men circle at the edge of the darkness as though waiting for the light to die. They've been slaughtered a hundred times over, bleeding and breaking but never stopping. There is a foul light in their eyes that Arthur recognizes. He wonders if that is intentional, or if Morgana's frothing hatred simply spilled over into her spellwork so that her twisted, beautiful face stares out at him from all the wan faces of the dead.

The knights take their rest where they can get it, letting the creatures strike the first blows. There is little hope that they will survive to see the sky again, but they will hold out as long as they can. Arthur finds himself wishing crazily for Merlin. It's a selfish thought - what could the boy do except die beside him? - but he cannot banish it.

As if in contrary answer to his wish, a white-blue ball of light appears over their heads. For one heartbeat, Arthur is sure he is about to be consumed by raw sorcery. Then he recognizes it: the perfect spherical shape; the controlled burn of it, like a tiny steady sun; the white tendrils of magic sliding gracefully over its surface. The knights, unable to recoil, freeze at this new threat, but Arthur's mouth is opened in wonder.

The light...unfurls. It cascades from its own center like a circular waterfall, growing in volume as it expands. Percival ducks his broad shoulders, but the light was never going to touch him. It falls past the knights to land at their feet and then slams outward in a thunderous blast. When Arthur's vision clears, the light of the torches seems brighter, and there are ashy shadows on the walls where the pale men were standing.

"Forward!" Arthur shouts at his dazed knights. They move at his command and he tries to keep a relieved grin off his face. He thinks he must be succumbing to battle hysteria because he has a euphoric impression that Merlin never left his side.


	31. Never from Your Side

**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Gwen, Arthur  
**Summary:** Gwen's only chance is to convince Arthur that he was not abandoned.  
**Warnings:** N/A  
**Word Count:** 213  
**Prompt:** #51 Anniversary  
**Author's Notes:** N/A

**Never from Your Side**

The sun is leeching through the leaves to splash her path with light, but Gwen's thoughts are dark as she hurries through the hunter's woods. It is one year to the day since she waited here for a friend who never came. In that time the castle's walls have seemed to close in around her, and the eyes of her mistress have grown cold and uncaring. She thinks of these things and wants to give in to her trembling, but the promise of catching Arthur away from prying eyes is driving her forward.

When she finds him, he's bent over a stream, cupping the running water in his hands and splashing it down over his face and neck. He looks up at her soft step, blue eyes washed cold and clear. There is anger and wariness there, but it softens just slightly when he recognizes her. For a moment, he looks like the man she used to know, before Merlin disappeared and Morgana bent Uther's ear to her cruel whims. She's momentarily overcome with the urge to throw herself against him and crush away the days that have passed in such uncharacteristic fear. It gives her voice a breathless quality when she finally gathers the will to speak.

"He didn't leave you, Arthur."


	32. Return

**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** Arthur/Gwen  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Gwen  
**Summary:** N/A  
**Warnings:** Spoilers through end of S5.  
**Word Count:** 128  
**Prompt:** #52 At Last

**Return**

The blade rises and falls in a sweeping rhythm that beats counterpoint to staccato breaths. The winter sunlight has been whetted by icy air, and it turns the spray of blood into a shining string of rubies.

Pivot. Slice. Breath. Sweep. Step. Breath. Backhand. Pivot...

Until the breath is arrested, and the dance ends. The magic-burnished sword is no longer weightless but laden with long years of solitary reign. The battle - the world - is swept away in a lost, tumbling sea of blue eyes.

"Gwen?" It is the shivering plea of a lonely child, not a resurrected king.

She drops Excalibur. At last her breath returns. For the first time in almost a decade, she _breathes_. It impels her forward to brace him when he falters.


	33. Here at the End of All Things

**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** _The years fall away like the ashen feathers of a phoenix, and Merlin remakes them in flames._  
**Warnings:** Post-Series 5, so implied spoilers for entire show.  
**Word Count:** 704  
**Prompt:** #61 - Broken  
**  
**

**Here at the End of All Things**

The years fall away like the ashen feathers of a phoenix, and Merlin remakes them in flames. He defeats time by recasting Albion again and again, preserving that which he has sworn to protect. The world has grown old, but Camelot still shines in the morning sun, waiting for her king to return.

It isn't right; Merlin knows that. How could it be, without Arthur? But the flags still fly. The walls are indomitable. It is not the nation they dreamt of forging, but it has survived, and that is what matters. It's _here_, and with Arthur to lead, it will be great again.

The time of Arthur's return is a natural law not even Merlin can usurp, but he knows the day and the hour. He knows the _nanosecond_ when his king will find his way back to the land he was forced to leave behind. His absence has spanned generations, but to Merlin it is like a breath he has been waiting a thousand years to exhale. He waits, and he is ready.

* * *

Merlin's is the last and the first voice Arthur hears. There is something in between that last and this first, but it slides away from his thoughts, infinite and unrestrained. He blinks in the hazy light, listening to Merlin's rambling with a bittersweet sense of homecoming.

"How long?" he rasps, still disoriented with the weight of his limbs, with being _here_ and _now_ in a way that feels both familiar and utterly foreign.

"A thousand years."

The response is oddly toneless, and Arthur looks - really _looks_ - at his oldest friend. His skin is unmarked by the passage of years, blue eyes clear, limbs strong, and Arthur thinks for a moment that perhaps Merlin also tasted death and returned. But as soon as he knows what to look for he can _see _the centuries like a shadow across his features: grooves as implacable as the course of an ancient river after the water has dwindled away to nothing. Merlin tries to smooth it over with a boisterous gaiety, but Arthur can see the fractures inside.

"-definitely _not _polishing your armor, so you can forget about that-"

"Merlin." Arthur interrupts the stream of jibes and mundane chit-chat with a growing sense of foreboding. "Where are we?"

Merlin blinks. "Camelot."

Arthur focuses on his breathing, maintaining an implacable calm as he glances up at the enormous red sun. It seems to fill half the sky, yet its light is dim and the air is inexplicably thick, as though choked with a dry mist. He recognizes the battlement, and the courtyard below. He recognizes his own banner, though there is not even a whisper of a breeze to lift it. It is certainly his castle, and stretching below it are the streets of the town, each cobblestone perfectly fitted to the next. The buildings are pristine, practically glowing with the indistinct blur that the atmosphere gives to distant objects.

"Merlin," he says slowly and carefully. "Merlin, where are the people?"

Merlin freezes eerily in place, his breath arrested, and Arthur can see his fragile illusions fluttering away like dead leaves. "I saved some," he whispers finally. "Those that would listen. I _saved _them Arthur. They didn't die like the others. They just...faded. They grew old, and they died. Even the children. Until...everything dies, Arthur. I can stop the wind and the fire and the sickness. I can make food and clean water. But I can't touch time any more than it can touch me."

Arthur tries to speak, but gets stuck somewhere between yelling at Merlin to stop and asking him to explain. A terrible truth is unfolding and he doesn't know if the details will make it more or less bearable. Is this the great destiny that was foretold for his kingdom? Is this the shattered world Arthur has been sent back to save?

"But you're back, Arthur. We can...everything will be sorted now. I couldn't get it right because I only had half. I needed the other side of the coin, that's all. We can...make it..."

Merlin trails off pathetically. In the silence of that perfect, sterile world, Arthur realizes that the broken thing he's meant to save...is Merlin.


	34. As Well Deny the Wind-polished Stars

**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/s:** N/A  
**Character/s:** Gwaine  
**Summary:** Gwaine has a drink...or five, and thinks about things that can't be changed.  
**Warnings:** Somewhat strong language because...Gwaine.  
**Word Count:** 712  
**Prompt:** #62 Undeniable  
**Author's Notes:** I wanted to do something different, and I feel Gwaine was always an underutilized character. Someone once mentioned that, in their head-canon, Gwaine always knew about Merlin's magic. Because, y'know...Gwaine.

**As Well Deny the Wind-polished Stars**

He winked at the barmaid habitually, but he already knew he would be in no shape for her charms tonight. Gwaine could always tell around this time, when the day was tipping toward darkness and the fields were lit by the dying sun, giving them an otherworldly cast that made anything seem possible. He could tell what kind of night it would be.

Sometimes he'd spend it chasing the bottom of his tankard as it receded from him again and again, until his coin ran out and he was thrown into his bed in the gutter. Sometimes he'd spend it searching all the secret places of a woman's body for whatever it was he'd lost, or never had. And sometimes he'd spend it bruising his knuckles on bollocks-faced gits who were too much in tune with the dying pulse of a rotting kingdom, taking whatever they could from anyone smaller and weaker than themselves.

He'd stood outside the tavern, smelling that daily scent of anticipation, of change that would never come, and it drove him inside to seek the bottle. But he still smiled at the harried angel bringing him his salvation in a leather cup. He tossed it back in the time it took her to tap a new cask, then held it out for the first foamy drops of the new draught. She obliged, but not until he'd paid in advance for the rest of the night's liquid balm.

"S'matter, lass? Don't trust me?"

"Don't trust any man. Least of all one what laps my best brew like a landlobbed fish."

"That's probably wise," Gwaine admitted before considering the golden froth before him. "'Tis a good swill."

"Once sold in the heart of Camelot," she agreed proudly, and he realized that she must be the alewife herself. He raised his eyebrows.

"Not often I meet a fellow traveler. What brought you to this goat-swyving cesspit of a kingdom?"

She gave a short bark of a laugh, almost in spite of herself, and Gwaine began to reconsider his prognostication of the evening's end. Her eyes were hard, but when her lips turned up, however briefly, it was unconscious and..._earned_. "The king, may a thousand rats piss in his casks, made promises."

"Ah." He nodded into his flagon as he took another pull. "Kings make almost as many of those as they break."

"He said the common folk would be their own ale-conners, and those what drank the brew would judge by coin, buying from the best and shunning the others." She snorted. "That lasted all of a season before his men came round the alehouses, tasting for free and arresting anyone who didn't speak kindly enough of the Pendragon's rule."

Gwaine cocked his head, trying to reach his hazy recollections of Camelot's taverns. "I was only in Camelot for a brief time, but I didn't see any ale-conners. Uther has a son, you know. He's only half the git his father is."

"I'll believe that when they crown pigs and use cow pies for scratch."

She moved off to exchange ale for coin, and he nodded to himself as he plumbed the depths of his drink. The further he'd gotten from Camelot, the more faded his memories of Arthur's exploits became. It was easy to fall back into the old patterns. Arthur may have given him a decent turn once, but that didn't make him any less of a noble. They were such masters of affectation that they often fooled themselves into ignoring their own sins. Even if the younger Pendragon had a good heart, he'd never look at the blood on his hands. Nothing would change. Nothing could change. As well call the sun false and deny the stars.

Gwaine had just about convinced himself that the world was as it shouldn't be when Merlin's dotty grin surfaced in his thoughts and would not leave off. Somehow, the image of that terrifyingly hopeful, daft sorcerer clung determinedly to his melancholy. Who but Merlin would have the stones to practice magic under the noses of the Pendragons? Who but Merlin would give his enemy his unabashed and undying loyalty?

The battered and disgraced knight found himself raising his flagon in a silent salute before swallowing the last of his shattered hopes.


End file.
